The Second Spark
by Dunno12345
Summary: The Hunger Games are over,but the scars left behind will never heal. Katniss still struggles with the pain it has given both her and Peeta, and she will fight to keep it from her children, whatever the cost. But this story isn't about her. (Continuation of Katniss's daughter. All characters owned by Suzanne Collins, this is just a fanfic. Also found by me on Wattpad)
1. Chapter 1

If I had to choose between benefitting from my father's baking skills or my mother's hunting ones, I think I would have chosen hers.

Baking is fine and all, but I don't have the green thumb with bread that my father does. He can make fancy delicacies from simple ingredients; paint a felling sun dropping into the ocean.

I'm more handy with weapons; I can handle a knife decently enough. I can catch a bird through the eye with an arrow, much like my mother used to. I find my peace in the depths of the woods.

This is how I know that I take more after my mother than that of my father. Because though I shoot like her, she wasn't the one to teach me how. I had to teach myself after she refused to pass her knowledge on to me. I think it hurts her to see her daughter learning how to defend herself; as if now that the Hunger Games are over, there is no need to learn basic survival skills.

But I disagree. The Hunger Games might be over, but they will never be forgotten. One of the most common phrases is that history has a knack for repeating itself.

And I want to be ready if it does.


	2. One

It crouches low in the trees, perched on a branch that is partially exposed as if it's trying to taunt me. Quietly, I pull out an arrow and nock my bow.

Three breaths pass.

Three heartbeats.

I look at the small creature and pretend I'm looking into its beady black eyes. Then I let my arrow fly.

The hit is snug. I watch as the black bundle falls from the trees to the forest floor, the arrow a clean hit through its gut. Not my best shot, but it's not my fault the tree was in the way. I hook the bird onto a piece of wire tied to my belt, adding to the four others I've shot.

It's not like markets don't exist anymore. Food does not run in such scarcity as it once did, but there's reassurance in the capableness of getting your own food. There's also good prices for fresh kill, especially in birds. They present more of a challenge and butchers will pay for decent sized ones. But I don't do it for the money. We live in Victor's Village, so it isn't like I need it. But just because the Hunger Games are over does not mean the suffering has stopped.

People are still hungry.

I decide that it's time to get back and begin the trek down the base of the forested hill, a fifteen minute hike back to town. I whistle on my way there, of a meadow and wood, swinging the birds at my side. I know I've crossed into the boundaries of the city when I see the potholes from where the electric fence once dug into the ground. Though the barrier is gone, the air still feels charged.

As I get deeper into town, people wave to me. I smile back, stopping to say hello to the old woman I pass most every day. When I reach the market, I pull out my killings and place them on the counter.

Wike, the store owner, enters from the back door and appraises my bounty. "Not bad," he says, checking the weight of each one individually. He is an older man, nearing his sixties, his once black hair now dusted gray. Callused hands sort through the birds as his brown eyes turn up to meet me. "How long did this take you?"

I shrug. "Not long."

"Keep it that way," he says. "Don't want to kill 'em all. I like hearing my birds in the mornin.'"

I smile at that and nod. He removed the birds from the weight machine and pulls open the cash register. "That's about twenty," he says.

I purse my lips. "It was twenty-five last time and I had two more."

He gives me an apologetic look. "Prices are unsteady, Willow. I can only give you what I can afford."

Not much I can do about that, I think. Not wanting to seem greedy, I accept the money and shove it in my bag.

The bell hanging loosely over the front door goes off and I glance behind me. I'm slightly paranoid every time I come in here. Mostly, because I fear someone I know well enough will see me and mention it to my folks. My mom is in ill favor of me practicing hunting, mostly because I believe it brings back bad memories of arrows stuck in people rather than in animals.

But I sigh in relief when it is no one I know. And that's what catches me off guard, because I know everyone here.

I do a double take, absorbing the stranger's unfamiliar face. He has a single bag hung over his arm and a hat drawn so low over his eyes, I can't tell the color of them. Shaggy, brown hair profiles his face, his jawline chiseled and taught. It's then that I realize I'm staring and look away. I glance at Wike, wanting to ask him if he knows the stranger, but his eyes hold the same question. I give him a subtle shrug. It's time to go anyway.

"See you later, Wike," I say as I exit, skirting around the stranger, pretending as if this is nothing out of the ordinary.

We get visitors, yeah, but travel isn't common. It's another reason I'm saving the money I make hunting; because neither me nor my brother wish to stay here for the remainder of our lives and I don't want to have to rely on the money of parents to get me where I wish to go.

I glance one more time at the stranger, his eyes catching my own, only for an instant, before he turns away.

Grey.

His eyes are grey.


	3. Two

I don't see the man for two days. After leaving the market, I watched as he walked away, an enigma trapsing down the same street I've walked up and down my entire life. It almost seemed eerie, seeing him do so, as if he bore an answer I was eager to have a question for.

He couldn't have been very old. Perhaps around my age, maybe a few years older, but those grey eyes had held more than his number of years let on. He had that deep look. The same look I'd seen on only the elders here. The same look both my parents bore.

I think I expected to see him shortly afterwards. Roaming the shops, maybe walking the trails. Heading in a particular direction. But no. The man seems to disappear, all traces of him wiped from existence.

_Nomad, _I finally conclude, after bringing my game in for the second day. Nomads aren't uncommon. Not anymore. Few people wish to stay where they're raised, after living with parents that had once been condemned to one living. One lifestyle. One way of doing things. In all honesty, I wouldn't mind being one myself. Maybe that's why I'm eager to leave; to go someplace new.

I'm hunting again on the thrird day, arrow perched in the notch of my bow, aimed at a jabberjay that whistles on a high branch. A part of me doesn't want to kill it; the graceful creature, but powerful in its own way. It has the ability to mimick sounds, like live recordings flickering through the trees, whistling pieces of someone's past to each other.

They were in the Hunger Games with my parents, before my dad had been taken and the Uprising had been fully brought.

I close my eyes at the last second and let go.

The arrow makes a short hissing sound before I hear a thunk, but then a branch snaps behind me, in sinc with the arrow now lodged in the neck of the jabberjay and I twist around.

At first, I don't see anything. Nothing but light shadows, cast by the tall trees onto the dense forest floor. Then I see it. Or rather, I see him, peering down at me, his shadow ebbing away from the darkness, the light peeking through the branches scaring it away. He wears the same clothes. The same thick padded boots. The same emotionless smirk that's impossible to read. My alarm spikes as I spot his own bow gripped in his hand.

His grey eyes stare at me and I'm debating if I should point my next arrow at him, just in case.

My mind swims. What's he doing here? Had he caught me staring the other day? Who is he?

I go with a different question. "Can I help you?" I ask, my hand itching to have another arrow. I feel defenseless. Exposed. But I have to remind myself that times have changed and I wasn't alive to know how that change had taken place; to see this world as it was before, during the time of the Hunger Games. But I wait, watching as he lifts his weapon and strings it across his shoulder.

I lower my hand with my bow to my side.

He continues to stare at me, pushing away a branch. "Good shot," he says, motioning to the Jabberjay that lies at the base of the tree a few yards away. I glance at it once before meeting his gaze again. "Do you need something?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

His mouth quirks up, another unreadable expression, one that can either be deemed bemused or lingers by the branch. "Nothing more than you do. Food. Though that's what the market is for, right?"

I lift my eyebrow. "The food has to come from somewhere. Where did_ you_ come from?"

"I've always wanted to hunt here," he says. "Nostalgic purposes."

"No, from _where? _I've never seen you before," I say. "And I don't forget a face."

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against his leg. He motions with his other hand that it's not from around here. "You could say the territory wasn't for me."

"Which district?"

"The districts don't exist anymore," his tone sounds irritated, like it's not his first time saying it. "Just a curious traveler."

That doesn't sound curious, it sounds suspicious, but I don't say that out loud. "Who are you?"

"Isn't that a bit prying?"

"You snuck up on me," I say, voice harder than I intended it to be. "Not many people can do that."

"Not many girls can shoot an arrow through a Jabberjay twenty yards up, buried behind foliage either. I've only heard about one who could."

My hands tighten again on my bow. I don't look away as my stare deepens, as if they alone can beckon his intentions from him. "I'd be surprised if you didn't know of her," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to dissolve some of the inexplicable tension that has risen in a thick cloud around us. His look is inquisitive, questioning, alluring in a way that I don't trust. "Is that why you traveled here? Anxious to meet the famous Katniss Mellark? I should let you know, her fanbase has quieted down since then."

"So you know her?" he asks, his voice even, blank. There's nothing blazing beneath his words; almost like an innocent stranger asking for directions. I shrug, but don't loosen my hold. "Yeah, but it's hard not to when you live in the same place as her."

For some reason, I don't want to tell him I'm her daughter. I don't know what he wants. I don't know him. Though it isn't hard to believe he traveled here to meet her, I'm alone in the woods with him and I don't know what kind of leverage he could glean if those are what his ulterior motives involve. People either love my mom or don't. No hero can ever be agreed upon by the world.

"I'd imagine that to be true," he says, leaning his shoulder against the tree. He looks relaxed, much more loosely wired than I feel. "I've got other matters to attend to, though."

"Right," I say with a nod. "Nostalgia."

His lips lift, a ghost of a smile. "Not mine. I'll let you get back to your hunting."

Before he goes, however, an urge creeps up inside me and before he can disappear, I ask for his name, but says nothing.

And then he's gone, his body disappearing through the woven branches.

I hunt for two more hours after that, trying not to wonder at the stranger's ambivalence. I get three more Jabberjays and a couple of squerrels, preserving them in a sack as I trek my way back. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting orange rays through the thinning treeline as I pass into the city. At the market, I get the same lower price than usual but say nothing, though my irritation makes my hands clench. Regardless, I take the money and shove it in the same sack I'd carried the squirrels in before heading home.

When I open the door, the air feels strange; charged. I don't know what it is until I walk into the kicthen, slipping the money into my pocket before disposing of the sack. Rye cooks dinner with dad, who gives me a warm smile. I'd already snuck my bow into the house through the window and no one had been paying attention as I dropped the sack in the laundry, but I still feel guilty at hiding it, especially from dad. "How was your day?" he asks, flipping something that smells delicious in a pan. It seems fancier than what he usually concocts for casual dinners and my eyebrows weave together.

"Wow," I say, watching Rye, my younger brother, spoon some kind of sauce onto an elaborate plate of meat. "Why so nice?" I ask, hoping it doesn't sound like other dinners aren't nice. My dad and brother are amazing cooks, regardless of the fact that my brother's true passion lies in scuplting, painting, and other arts he emmerses himself into.

Dad raises his eyebrows. "We have a guest tonight. You're mother is talking with him now in the living room. I invited him to dinner."

"And it was an excuse to pull out the rosemary," Rye says with a kidding grin. He's almost fifteen now, just a few years younger than me, but I do have the habit of referrring to him as my baby brother, a habit he'd like me to break. But it's hard to break that habit when you've been doing it since you were three.

A bad feeling settled over me. "Who is it?"

"Traveler," my dad says, looking up. "Had some questions. Just wanted to talk. They should be done any min-"

As if on cue, my mom walks in, her hair braided and hanging over her shoulder. She wears a black shirt and comfortable pants, smiling at the man with the unreadable expression.

_"Seriously?"_ I say so low, I doubt anyone has heard. But the man's piercing eyes suddenly meet mine and that same ghostly smile, the faintest trace of one, appears on his lips. "I take it this is your daughter," he says, voice even-toned as he continues to look at me. I glance away. I notice he doesn't mention any prior meetings between us and I don't know how to respond as if I'm facing him for the first time.

I smile, but it doesn't feel real. "And you are?"

"Call me Lief," he says, eyes still lingering on me when I look at him again. There's a spark in them I can't place and it frustrates me; like a mask is draped over his features.

My dad claps his hands suddenly, severing the uncomfortable air. "Dinner done. Are you ready to eat?"

The food is delicious, but the conversations held over it weird to me; odd. The man sitting across from me is a complete mystery in himself and it's almost hard to picture him here, as if his presence is surreal. It's how I imagined my mom felt as she was in the Capitol; knowing it existed but feeling foreign in herself that she was actually there.

The man is quiet for a lot of the conversation, his eyes trailing between my parents as they talk and when he finally does, I focus on what he says, something not quite feeling right to me.

I catch my mom looking at him, too, but then she shakes her head as if dismissing the thought.

"In truth, I'm here to discuss some other matters that are taking up concern in the west," the man-Leif- says a half hour later, his plate scraped clean. He relaxes his elbows on the table, hands beneath his chin as he reads my parents' faces. "Some rivalry has begun there, spreading to the south and along the coast. Nobody knows what triggered it, but I was coming here to give you both this." He pulls something out- a small, square contraption that brings up a hologram.

Rye mutters "cool," but I'm too busy looking at the image shimmering before me. Two groups of people are opposing each other, shouting at each other, guns tucked around belts. A shot rings out which causes me to flinch but then the image changes to political leaders, dressed in white, discussing something from inside a private glass room. I can almost feel the tension from there, the looks the representatives give each other come mostly in glares.

"Civil unrest if you would like a particular label to it. People in the Capitol are looking to the leaders to instill force if these rebel acts or disquietness continue, but I'e also heard other therories that if you-both of you- were to travel to the Captiol and broadcast over the nation, could possibly subdue those raids."

Another image. More gunshots.

"Though the government's..agenda has changed quite significantly since the Hunger Games were dismantled, they still seem unwilling to accept the Capitol as still being the Capitol. Some say they want anarchy, others just want the Capitol gone so that a new government can be built on its ruins."

He stops the images and puts the item back in his pocket.

"Half the leaders want to instill force, the other half refuses for the claim that it could provoke another Uprising. The people still look to you two as leaders moreso than the ones put in office. Traveling to the Capitol for a week at most could give the people the reassurance they seek. Especially if your true opinions were unhindered."

"You work for the Capitol." My mom says, her tone suddenly dry. But the man shakes his head. "No, I don't. I came here on my own accord. I don't live near the Capitol. I refuse to even visit there so you could say I'm also a little concerned."

My parents look at each other and to break the uncomfortable silence, I start picking up plates.

I don't trust the man. His words, maybe. His actions, perhaps. But his identity doesn't feel right. I dumpthe plates in the sink and when I return, Leif is stading to go. He thanks my parents for dinner. "I'll be in town when you've decided," he says and walks out.

I ground my teeth together, holding a finger up as I sneak after him, closing the front door behind me. I walk down the steps. "Who are you?" I ask again, eyeing his back. He stops abruptly, raising his head as if surprised. "I've told you," he says.

But the one trait I have, developed on my own, is the keen ability to see through a lie. "I want the truth," I say. "Or I'll dissuade my parents from going."

I'm sure I'm going to attempt to dissuade them anyway, but he doesn't know that.

Leif turns halfway to me, eyes appearing from beneath his thick hair. "You're too perseptive for you're own good," he says, but he makes no move to leave as I take a few steps forward.

_Who are you? _I ask him again, though I don't voice the question, just continue to stare into his grey eyes, appearing dark due to the arrival of nightfall.

"I'm Leif," he says, as he starts again, putting his back to the house once more. He casts me a final look over his shoulder. "Leif Hawthorne."


	4. Three

Leif Hawthorne.

The name settles like ice water in my veins; makes me feel cold. I only know of one other person with that name and he was sentenced to live out his existence in only the memories my parents have of him. I know him as a lost friend; as a man who made one fatal mistake.

Even with that, though, I know very little of who that man was and what story he left behind. His importance ceased to exist at the end of one fuse that burned my mom's world to the ground.

so who is _he_? I want to guess Leif is his son or some relative of his, I don't know. I've barely had the time to absorb the name alone before I'm back in the house and helping Rye clean up the last remnants from dinner. I sneak glances of my parents, their eyes drawn worriedly, and wonder if I should tell them.

Do you know who it is?

Does he look like the man who was once your friend?

But I don't. Instead I silently repeat the name over in my mind, holding it like a lantern to a face with grey eyes.

The next morning comes and goes with no indication of what my parents will decide to do. the only thing I catch is mom looking at dad and him glancing back. This is one way they communicate, as if they know each other so well, they don't need to verbally speak in order for the other to understand. I've always found it kind of fascinating but in the days that follow, I begin to find it infuriating.

to make matters even more disconcerting, I've been directed no more hunting trips until the matters are solved and that, if they do intend to take the man up on his suggestion, I won't be allowed hunting privileges until their return.

That doesn't go as well as they probably planned.

"So you're going?" I ask mom, who has her arms folded tightly across her chest, braid swinging down. Dad is sitting at the table with his fingers steepled on the counter. "We haven't made a decision yet."

"It's been four days," I mutter. "Why would you even think to go? It's the Capitol, Dad!" My anger fuels my disrespect but I don't care. I've heard the horrors that existed in the days the Capitol stood in dictatorial power, but my parents were forced to live in it. Through the wars that raged within the arena and out, and the last thing they should do is return to the place that started it all.

"That's why we are taking it into consideration, Willow," Dad says in his usual calm voice. That's who dad is, after all. Gentle. It is something even the Capitol couldnt break.

Mom takes a deep breath. "Lives are on the line here, Willow. Lives have always been on the line when it comes to the Capitol. One war started with me. It would be nice to stop one from happening this time."

"And if it's a trick?" I challenge, raising my eyebrows. "What if this is a ploy to get you back there? A government's morale doesn't just change in a few decades. The Capitol from then could just as easily come back-"

"Enough!" Dad suddenly barks which takes me off guard and my words fall short. His eyes pierce into mine. "Both your mother and I know what we are getting involved with. If we decide to do this, you need to accept that we see it as the right choice."

I try to shield my glower but I don't think it works. I'm not mad at them, after all: I'm mad at the beasts that wrote the rules of the games; at the man in a white suit who once sat at the heart of the Capitol and drove thousands of people to their deaths. I'm mad at the past for being so hellbent on clawing its way back to the present.

But I still manage to bite out, "Fine."

On the sixth day, my parents reach their verdict and to my dismay, I'm handed the responsibility of bringing Leif to the house. I'm tempted to tell them who he is, but I don't need them to undertake anymore jarring news so I keep it silent as I head into town.

My eyes fall longingly on the trees I pass as I go, my hand itching for my bow and arrow. Seven days without the smell of pine and bark puts a physical ache in my heart but I shove it away. If it helps my parents, I'd endure it.

But that doesn't make me any happier.

In town, I check the market I saw him in earlier first, but don't see him. Next it's the smaller shops until I'm left wondering if he is in the forest like last time. I sieze the opportunity and head into the woods, ignoring the empty hand my bow should be in. Today, I'm hunting for something I can't shoot.

It takes about twenty minutes before I see him, shrouded in the brush of the forest. His arms are drawn up where the string of a bow is placed between his hands, the tip flashing in the sunlight. Then there's a snap and something falls to the forest floor.

My eyes land on the bird, the arrow impaling his neck, and I feel suddenly smug. The neck is a much easier target than the eye.

"If it's not Little Everdeen herself," he suddenly says, and I'm struck with the knowledge that he knows I'm here, even having not looked. My footsteps still. "No bow?" he turns to face me. "And why's that?"

The fact I can't read his expression grates on my nerves. Is he arrogant? Or just impassive? I can't tell.

"My parents have made their decision," I state bluntly. "They sent me to bring you by the house."

He lowers his bow. "What is it?"

"If they would've told me, I wouldn't be asking you back to the house," I deadpan.

Leif gives me a dubious look, but slings his bow nonetheless. He stands by me and waits and after an awkward pause, plunges ahead of me, back the way I'd come. I tail behind him, trying to keep up the pace and actually start to suspect he's trying to lose me by the time we break out of the woods. I try to quiet my rough breathing as he starts walking again, out of town and towards my house.

He has a keen sense of direction, I think to myself. I'll give him that.

By the time we reach the porch of the house, I'm sweating. To my annoyance, though, Leif appears unaffected, standing stoic in front of the door as if he hasn't just practically jogged for a mile. But I swallow my annoyance and motion him inside.

My parents come to greet him and then they branch off into the office, leaving me behind to settle matters. I purse my lips and stare at the closed door, steadily burning a hole through it.

Eighteen. I'm eighteen years old, still being forced to hold a glass cup to the surface of a door.

"Whatr'e you doing?" Rye asks me and I jump back, casting him a glare. But then I see him holding up his own glass and motion him over, too.

An hour passes. Maybe more, I don't know. It's enough time that I'm forced to put away the glass and wait around the living room instead.

When they finally do exit the office, I try to read the expressions, but whether grim or not, I can't tell. Mom and Dad just come and join us around the table as Leif stands awkwardly away. Our eyes meet for a moment but I look away first, focusing my attention on my parents.

Dad glances between us.

And I know what they've decided.

"We are going to take the train to the Capitol for a week," he says, and I clench my teeth together so hard, I'm sure they'll chip. "Just to make the broadcasting ame see the results."

I can tell Rye wants to protest, but I beat him to it.

"What if he's lying, though?" I ask, even knowing he's standing only a few yards away and can hear me. "What if he is tricking you and you don't come back?" That's what I'm really worried of. That the Capitol will take away even more from us than they have already; that they'll purposefully show off the leaders of the Uprising just to publicly tear them down.

Before mom or dad can answer, I whirl on him. "You could be just another Capitol puppet. I don't care whether or not you think it changed, but if it hasn't and my parents get hurt, I will hold you personally responsible. And my punishment won't be delivered lightly."

"Willow!" Mom yells, and I snap my mouth shut. But I don't take my eyes off of his that are staring intently back at me.

"That's also part of our agreement," Dad says in his leveled-tone. "You won't have to be worried about him lying. Because he's staying here."

my eyes widen and I stare at my dad open-mouthed. "He's what?"

"He agreed to remain here, to watch both of you until we return."

My jaw drops further. "We don't need a babysitter, Dad."

"He's not," he assured. "You were worried about us being tricked by him, so to make sure he's true to his word, he will stay and only leave when we come back. Safely."

I scoff. Or maybe it's more of a choke, but my eyes stay on dad, glancing occasionally at Leif. Then I shake my head, trying to contemplate having this stranger around for a week and it bugs me; like something threatening has just taken up residence on my territory.

"All right," I say in the most nonchalant tone I can muster.


	5. Four

Mom and Dad leave the next day. We stand at the platform, Rye and myself, watching them board the train heading towards the Capitol. I try not to let the what ifs into my mind, but they come anyway, bringing with them images of jails and guns and men in white uniforms.

I watch my parents take a seat on the train. Dad lifts his hand to me and mom smiles but I wonder how deep the gestures go and if they mirror my fears inside.

They'll come back, I tell myself as the train starts, the station vibrating from the power of it. I raise my own hand in farewell and smile too, but it feels false on my lips.

They'll come back.

I try to prolong returning home for as long as possible. But unfortunately for myself, Rye takes after the gentleness of dad and is on his way home to help in making Leif comfortable. Because that's who Rye is; undeniably, the better child.

I avert my gaze from Leif's as Rye settles him in to the guest room, remaining in the kitchen as I pull out ingredients for dinner. But when Rye is finished and comes back in, his look turns to horror as his eyes settle on the dinner-to-be. It's the same look I get when my arrow misses its target.

"What are you making?" He asks.

I look down at the slate of cheese in my hands. "Dinner," I say simply.

"Dinner? No, Wil, you cannot mix Pecarino with,"- he picks up a spice,-"saffron?" His eyes widen. "No. Get out of my kitchen," he says, snatching up the cheese.

"But I want to help-"

"You can help by not coming within five feet of food."

I shoot him a glare as he pushes me into the living room. "I can cook!" I argue.

Rye laughs and sits me on the couch. "Anyone can cook, Wil. Whether or not it's edible is another endeavor entirely."

"Hey, I can." But he's already turning away and walking back towards the kitchen, leaving me behind.

"The daughter of a prestigious baker who can't cook," Leif suddenly materializes behind me and I turn around, my gaze falling on his lounging figure resting against the wall. He crosses his legs and watches me, those grey eyes turning up in what I assume to be humor. "That's ironic."

"She can't draw either," Rye calls from the kitchen, smiling mockingly at me. "Unless the criteria for artism is a stick figure."

The corner of Leif's lips turn slightly but I'm glowering at both of them. I stand up before they can crack any more jokes and head to my room. "I can cook," I mutter behind my closed door.

I return when dinner is done, sitting across from Leif whose actions I study with suspicion. He's very removed, not eating more than one serving and not saying more than what Rye asks of him.

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere particular; I'm more nomadic."

"Do you have family in the Capitol?"

"No."

Eventually, I jab Rye in the side to get him to stop, and he glares at me. Dinner remains quiet after that, awkwardly silent with me purposefully not looking at either of them and Rye continuing to stare.

Leif is the first one to finish and picks up his plate, cleaning it in the sink before putting it away. Again, I feel that annoyance at seeing how comfortable he is in my house; eating at our table. Maybe that's a little juvenile of me, but these are my parents I'm talking about and anyone who threatens their safety will not be well received by me.

I follow after and clean my own dishes before heading back into my room, deliberately avoiding him as I go. I will minimize my interactions with him as greatly as possible, I decide.

I'm already counting the days.

We get a call from mom two days later, and the relief I feel is overwhelming. She ensures that everything is going according to their expectation, but I can hear the waver in her voice she tries to hide and wonder if she's seeing it all again; the train ride, the tributes, a world coated in red. But I don't ask and reassure her that everyone's fine before hanging up.

I want to tell her who really is in our house, but if this man is who I think he is, mom must know too. Does he look like her friend? When she saw his eyes, did she see someone else?

Leif remains in the guest room usually. I don't know how he stands in, being in a small place with suffocating walls for so long, and by the fourth day, I break out.

Mom and Dad said no hunting, but they never mentioned us having a guardian stay with us and if Rye's protected, I see no reason I can't go out for a little while.

Just before sunrise, I'm strapping on my boots and pulling on my coat, slinging my bow over my arm before I sneak out the back. It's crisp today, and the dark sky is already threatening rain, the clouds bruised a light purple and casting everything in grey. I take a deep breath, feeling suddenly free before starting off down the dirt road. Not many people are out this time, but I catch sight of a few others, milling about their homes or heading off to work. We exchange nods of acknowledgement, until I'm far enough to break off into the woods, their bodies of bark casting shadows onto the forest floor. Jabberjays whistle overhead, their songs reverberating through the trees and I reply with a whistle, one that sparked a nation and made it rage.

I resume my usual path, jumping over rocks and logs as quietly as I can, careful not to disturb the inhabitants. One squrriel darts up a trunk and I knock my bow, leveling the point with the body of its intended target. With one swift motion, the squirrel falls. I climb up to it and stash it in my bag, but not before smirking smugly at the sight of its pierced eye.

"I do believe this goes against your parents' instructions," someone says and I jerk around, losing my balance and falling to my knees. I glare up at Leif who watches me as I dust my hands off and climb to my feet. "I needed air," I say.

"At five am?"

"Why are you out here?" I ask, redirecting the question. "Were you following me?"

He just continues to stare at me, in that annoying leveled way of his. "I abide by the rules your parents set for me. Unlike their own daughter, it seems."

I scoff. "The world is not going to end because I leave the house for an hour. But Rye is still there, so I suggest you go back."

"Don't you ever just do what you're told?" He asks and my glare intensifies. "Don't you ever just stay out of people's business?" I reply. "Look, I get that you're on guard dog duty, but I don't need anyone else other than my parents looking out for me."

Leif smirks, as if doubtful of that. "Oh rest assured, Little Everdeen, it's not for your benefit." He leans against the trunk of a tree and crosses his arms. "But I have a deal with your parents and if I have to resort to tossing you over my shoulder and carrying you out like the squirrel in your satchel, believe me, I will do so."

I lock my jaw, my teeth gnashing together as I stare at him. "Don't think that I don't know who you are," I hiss through my teeth. "You're too young to be his brother, so what exactly are you?"

His smirk turns into a slight smile, the kind that makes his eyes seem darker. "I think you should take your own advice and stay out of people's business."

"Did you tell them?" I continue, ignoring his jab. "Did you tell my mom who you were? Or are you on a first name basis only?"

He pushes off the trunk and takes a step forward, but I don't back away. "I want to make something very clear to you, Leif Hawthorne," I say in an even voice. "I don't trust you. And the fact that you keep hiding that name is enough to validate me on why I shouldn't."

He dips his head down, staring at me beneath the locks of brown hair that fall across his face. I can tell he's about to say something, but a noise makes me stop, a mild buzzing sound that causes me to glance at the sky.

That's when the first bomb starts to fall.


	6. Five

**I really like where I'm taking this. *secretive glance***

It plummets to the ground in slow motion. Or it feels that way, a moment suspended in time as I watch the weapon strike the floor. For a second, there's nothing. But then the wave hits and the world jolts sideways with the explosion that rocks it. My ears are ringing and I don't realize I'm on my knees until someone is pulling me up. My eyes find grey ones and I see lips moving, but I cant hear the words that come out.

I'm too busy watching the world burn.

"Move!" That one word sinks into my mind, just as another explosion erupts, spewing more flames and consuming more earth.

"Everdeen, MOVE," he shouts again but it sounds like a whisper. I have the sudden mad desire to correct him, that it's Mellarke. But then he's pushing me. Dragging me to my feet and shoving me forward as more bombs explode behind us. Each one sends me unbalanced and nearly toppling over and I feel something drop down my cheeks. In my disoriented state, I lift my fingertips to them. They come away red.

"Kee...go...ng," Leif shouts at me, his words lost in the roar of explosions trailing in our wake. I force my eyes forward and pick my feet up, stumbling over logs and rocks as I go.

But then one thought comes to me, crystal clear in the midst of chaos.

Rye.

I move faster. No-I run, suddenly not caring where Leif is. I don't listen to his muffled shouts of protest, instead I just run as fast and hard as I possibly can, picking myself up when I fall at each bomb. Stones and branches dig into my arms but I can't feel the pain as I dart through the forest, some of the treetops already dipped in flame.

Please not there, I beg the bombs overhead. Just don't land there.

"Everdeen!"

I see the clearing in the distance just before I break out of it, gaze falling onto the part of town that lies before me. At first glance, it seems untouched; flawless in its familiar crude exterior. But then I look more closely and I see the hole blown through the center of it, two buildings I used to pass now collapsed into a black heap.

I don't look anymore; I can't. My body thinks before my mind does and I whirl in the other direction, towards my house.

In some corner of my brain, questions scream at me. Why are we being bombed?

And more importantly, by who.

"WILLOW, STOP!" Leif shouts behind me, but I don't. In fact, I move faster, my heartbeat sounding in my ears and pounding through my chest.

Not there not there not there not there.

Another bomb screams overhead and this time, it lands in front of me. I feel a force grab me from behind just as the impact of the bomb in front hits, launching me off my feet. I hit the ground hard, but something I don't see softens the blow. The ringing returns, reducing sound to a low hum and I scramble back up, ignoring the dizziness that sweeps through me.

And then I'm running again. Diagonally, down my road I've trekked a million times. But now it's marred by a huge crater I walk past, coating the surface an ashen black.

More explosions. More fire. The world around me suddenly feels like it's ending, crumbling more and more with each bomb that falls. I cover my head as another whistles down, landing in the trees next to the road. I stop once to cough on the smoke searing down my throat and making my eyes water. It doesn't help so I continue blind, going by memory until I see the outline of it; my house, the sight of it filling my chest with relief.

In that second, I think it'll be okay. Rye will be inside and we'll run away from this world under attack. The relief drives me and I start running to it, just as the bomb I can't hear overhead comes and I'm unknowingly racing against gravity.

That same force grabs me from behind again and tightens its hold, keeping me from going home to my brother. Instantly, I start kicking, trying to force my way out of the vice I can't see. It loosens and I pull free, just as an eruption sounds and I watch my house break apart. Fire breathes out the windows, and where my home stood a moment ago, is now nothing but a charred heap of wood.

Time stops.

Everything stops.

And then I'm screaming.

I pound against the force constricting me. I kick at it and throw my body against it, but it's no use. It's no use because my house has just been turned to ruins.

"Let me go!" I scream, choking on the smoke and my own sobs that threaten to overtake me. "Let me go!"

But it doesn't. Instead, it tightens more, until my chest feels like it's breaking open. "You can't do anything," a voice speaks into my ear; deep and rugged. "There's nothing you can do."

"But my brother-" the sudden image of him standing in a room before it's enveloped by flames consumes me and I'm shoving against Leif again. "My brother! He could've..."

No, I tell myself. No. Rye would have heard the first bomb. He would've left. He would've gotten out.

"If he's gone, he's gone," Leif breathes, and the words make my chest feel as if it's being strangled. "But if he's not, you dying here won't help him."

I absorb what he's telling me and my strength suddenly drains away, depleting as quickly as it had come. I sag against him, staring at the broken home in front of me. The door that I painted with my dad at twelve years old is gone. The room that held all of dad's and Rye's paintings is now a mound of ash. The primrose that we grew in our yard has been scorched to nothing.

An alarm sounds. It reverberates down the road and pummels my ears and I actually laugh.

What good is an alarm if it comes this late?

"We have to go," Leif suddenly hisses in my ears, but I can't focus; can't see anything beyond the crater that now resides in what used to be my living room.

"Everdeen, move," he pushes me. In my state of delirium, I'm annoyed. I'm tired of his pulling and shoving but he does it anyway, steering me towards the safety of the trees. But before we pass into them, I catch sight of a truck, moving towards us. On its back, it carries two rows of people, decorated in white uniforms.

And then we're running again.

The meaning of time disintegrates. I don't know how much of it passes or what it means for it to, as we stumble through the forest, gagging on smoke that burns like acid. Waves of dizziness sweep over me, but I keep going, propelled by Leif each time I slow down.

in my peripheral vision, I see pillars of fire continue to shoot up, breathing more smoke through the trees we weave through. I run past it all numbly; the flames, the bombs, the screams I can hear as a dull chime in the distance. It's all just a cacophony of noise I'm being pushed away from.

"Don't stop," Leif demands each time my footsteps slow. "Move faster."

But I can't move faster. My feet feel uncoordinated and I start to slip every time, weighed down by the destruction following in our wake.

I'm tempted to just lie down here; become nothing myself along with the rest of the world, but Leif doesn't let me, not until we start breathing traces of air rather than smoke.

At first, it burns even more, like I've swallowed needles, but then it numbs too and my coughing turns to a wheeze.

I stumble again and this time when I hit the ground, no one forces me back up. I take that to mean we are farther away and try to see the path we'd come, but we're too deep in the woods for marks of familiarity to be distinguished.

I blink away the black dots scattered across my vision and find Leif, coughing into his arm as he leans with his back against a tree. He doesn't say anything and neither do I, and I continue to listen to the bombs that fall, a sound seemingly so small to match the horrors so big.

I find myself counting them. Four...five...seven...eight...Each bomb that falls instills more rage in me, sounding off the potential death of another person. For a second, just a split second, I'm in an arena, surrounded by the sounds of cannons.

Something touches my cheeks and I flinch away, eyes landing on a scrap of cloth. "Hold it to your ears," Leif explains to me, but I just continue to stare at the torn piece of fabric, my rage morphing into something I've never experiended before. Somewhere, my brother could be dying. Some where, my parents are behind Capitol doors. And instead of being with them, I'm here, with the man who's arrival seemed to start it all.

I stumble to my feet, suddenly wanting to get away from him. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he's here. But what I do know is that everything was fine before he came.

Leif watches me carefully and takes a step forward and I retreat more, nearly losing my footing again.

My mind is racing. Broken thoughts come in reels, bathed in the colors of ash and blood.

"Don't come near me," I hiss, clenching my teeth so hard, my jaw aches.

His is eyebrows pull together in confusion. "Hey, I didn't-"

I walk up to him and slap him across the face. There's a moment of stunned silence, but I break it quickly. "This is because of you," my words are coated in menace. "Everything was fine before you showed up. My parents should be here! But they left because of you. My brother was left alone because of you."

He rubs his cheek but looks back at me, his grey eyes suddenly blazing like the oncoming storm above. "No, that last one is actually on you, who didn't think the world would end if she left the house for an hour."

I almost slap him again, but the guilt that blossoms across my chest-cruel and unrelentless- stops me.

Because he's right.

If I had listened to my parents and stayed home, I would've been with Rye. I would be with him now, alive or dead.

My lip trembles but I bite it, so hard until it bleeds. "Who are you?" I ask for the second time. "A traveler? If you really wanted to keep your identity a secret, why'd you tell me your last name?"

"I wasn't keeping it a secret."

"Then why didn't you tell my parents?!" I yell.

"Because I look like him!" Leif shouts back, dropping his hands at his sides. "Your parents aren't idiots. That's the only reason they considered my offer."

I stare at him, feeling suddenly slow. "If they knew, they wouldn't have considered it; they would have kicked you out."

"And why's that? Because your mom blames him for killing her sister?"

His words ring through the sudden quiet, letting it sink in. My mom never went into the detail around her sister's premature death, but that the responsibility was held in the hands of her best friend; of another man who loved her, but ultimately destroyed the one thing she protected that started it all.

"Then why would you come here?" I ask. "Did he tell you to? As if killing her wasn't enough-"

"Stop acting like you were there," Leif interjects. "As if you were a victim, too. It isn't killing unless you mean for it to happen, and he didn't."

"I don't care what he intended!" I lash out. "I don't care who he is or who you are for that matter, except in the terms to know why all this happened just when you showed up."

I think I start hyperventiliating then, because my next words are chopped and slow. "My brother could be dead. My parents could be dead. My entire town has just been...and now it's gone! Everything is gone and you...did you know? Is that why you followed me this morning because you knew that this would...that this would..."

The reality of what I've seen finally hits; of the bombs and the flame, the blood and the ash. Everything. And it hangs heavy in the air as it crashes over me. My city is gone. Hundreds are dead. And that brother may be among them.

I turn away from him before he can answer and start walking back. The bombs have stopped, I know. I can't hear them anymore and if my brother somehow survived them, I'd find him.

Leif is quick and snatches my arm, pulling me back. I yank out of his grasp but he just latches on again, grip like steel. "Let. Me. Go," my voice shakes with barely contained rage.

"Why?" He challenges. "So you can go tromping into a place that's infested with attackers? You think you'll find your brother there?"

"I at least need to try," I say through my teeth.

Leif scoffs. "Yeah, I can see that going down well. Is that your plan? Are you going to dig through the burnt bodies, too? Maybe ask them for bone analysis-"

-"Stop!" I shout at him, glaring into those eyes of his. "You think this is coincidence? You think this happened at the same time my parents just broadcasted in the Capitol?" I pull against him once more. "I have to go back. I have to see."

"We'll wait until nightfall," he says, but it sounds like a demand. "Until they'll cleared out of the city."

I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but then I remember-the men in white uniforms, rowed in the back of a truck.

My anger doesn't diminish, but my focus shifts onto them. "Who were they?"

Leif doesn't hesitate. "Peacekeepers."


	7. Six

It starts to rain.

From the minimal shelter the trees offer, I watch smoke waft up from the distance as the downfall starts putting out the fires. It rises in big ugly grey plumes to the sky.

All those people, I think as I watch it. Wike's face surfaces in my mind, followed by the kindly old woman's I used to wave to on my way to the forest in the early mornings. I wonder if they got out, or if, when I return to the city, I'll be walking over their ashes.

Leif and I don't speak. I don't even try. My anger is still there, a thin layer of it brimming above the torrential grief below, and one wrong move will cause it to pool over the rim. But I don't let the anger go; it's easier to handle than the grief. Because once grief consumes you, only time can pull you out of it.

And that's one thing I don't have.

I think I fall asleep at some point. Or maybe it's more of a trance I fall into, but it feels like minutes pass before Leif's movements jolt me back to reality. "Let's start down," he says, and I'm up in a second. It's not quite nightfall, but the sunlight is beginning to fail, falling behind the trees and fracturing between the woods. It's a good enough light source though, that we can ensure the peacekeepers are gone.

Peacekeepers. The thought of them in my city makes my vision go white. To keep my anger in check, I turn my attention on stepping carefully, just in case anyone was left behind.

But when we finally make it to the city, any thought of carefulness ceases. My eyes widen and I think my jaw falls ajar, as I stare out over the ruins that used to be a city. That used to be people.

It has literally been reduced to nothing but charred black debris. It litters the cratered ground in masses, each different sizes and shapes. I don't even recognize where I am until I see half a sign from a shop Rye used to go in, now erased from history with nothing but half a word on a plank to mark its prior existence.

A choked sound escapes me-halfway between a sob and a cough. I'd heard stories of bombed places. Of terrors that quite literally fell from the sky and tore land to shreds. But even your mind cannot comprehend the magnitude of destruction until you're witnessing it firsthand.

I know better than to call out Rye's name as I pick my way over the remnants, gently, as if not wanting to disturb them. What used to be a place with bustling folk and loud roads has been silenced. Now it's just empty, the only noise being my pounding heart and the crunch of my boots upon the ashes.

Nothing is here, I know. Nothing living, that is. But the truth of it doesn't really sink in until I trip over something and look down, my eyes falling to what could be none other than charred bone.

My chest twists and I stumble back, away from the town and towards my house. I can't tell if Leif is following me until I hear his footsteps trailing after, down the road, past the crater, and to my mangled, broken home.

It's a horrendous sight, one that sends more pain gouging through me but I don't stop until I'm standing in the middle of the mess, nearly knee high in debris.

Then I start searching. I heft up pieces of indistinguishable material, searching for any sign that my brother was left here. It's morbid and awful, but I need to know.

I search and search, around what I think used to be the kitchen. But then I find a bent pan where I thought the guest room had been and get turned around once more. I keep digging though, until my hands are colored watery black and my knees are aching from crouching so much, yet I continue. I keep looking long after the evening light fades and I'm sifting through ash in the dark.

"I'm not...I don't see anything," I finally say, which I'm relieved in. If I don't find anything, it means my brother is still alive. I can be okay without a house and with memories and precious items burnt to a crisp. All that is okay, and just as long as my brother is not among them, it's nearly downright euphoric.

He's not here, I tell myself. Which means he at least knew what was coming before it hit here.

"Maybe they took him," I mumble to myself.

"Or maybe he was in the city at the time of the attack," Leif says, and I'd almost forgotten his presence. I glare at him, his figure barely distinguishable in the lack of light. "No, he wasn't."

My brother wouldn't have run into the city that was being bombed. He wouldn't-

"Unless he was trying to find you."

I close my eyes for a second, suddenly wishing Leif away. It takes physical effort not to beat him and I take a steady breath out my mouth. I do not admit to him voicing my worst fear and shake my head. "He knows I hunt in the mornings."

Even if the peacekeepers do have him, they'll head to the Capitol which is where my parents are anyway.

"But he also knows you were instructed not to." Leif continues. "He had no reason to assume looking in the forest."

"Stop!" I scream at him suddenly. I pick up a piece of something and throw it in what I think is his direction. "Just stop talking! I don't want to hear your theories on what could've happened. No-what happened was that the...Peacekeepers,"-I choke on the name-"took him with them. They had no reason to come in a truck if their only objective was to bomb the place. They came to get something."

Or someone.

I take deep breaths before I start wading out of the debris.

"So that's what you're going to do," Leif says, the suspicion evident in his voice. I don't say anything.

"You're very predictable, you know that?" he continues.

I shake my head, even though he probably can't see it. "I'm finding my brother," I hiss. "Yeah, it is predictable."

"And so you think you can just waltz into the Capitol? After they just bombed this place?"

I take another breath. I'm tired, thirsty, hungry, and terrified all rolled into one. I'm not in the mood for any lectures from him. "I'll figure something out. You-you just stay out of it. I don't even know why you're still here."

And I don't. The fact that he seems so quick to follow me around is somewhat unnerving, like I'm a motive of his in whatever all this is.

A beat of silence passes. "My apologies, Little Everdeen," he says, but I hear the subtle mockery in his words. "But even your company is better than a corpse's."

I don't even have enough energy to glower at him as I walk past, back towards the trees that no longer smell of pine. No, the only scent burning my nose is the tang of acrid smoke and burnt wood. I decide to leave now, just enough to get beyond the borders of the town. Besides, I'm less likely to be seen at night and if the Peacekeepers had to stop along the way, their campsite would be visible in the darkness, waving like an oversized flag.

I don't care if I'm tired. I don't care if the chill of the wind bites into my sodden clothes. I just start walking.

Leif's voice appears behind me and it makes my skin crawl. His suddenness is eerie in the dark. "You assume it'll be safer traveling during the night," he states.

I don't answer.

"How painfully predictable."

I glance at his silhouette. "And what's so wrong with being predictable?"

His tone darkens, just a bit, and I picture those stormy eyes staring at me. "You'll find out sometime. That predictable is a very dangerous thing to be."

I plan to ditch Leif at a rest stop. Once we make it a few miles out of town and onto the rougher terrain, I finally force me legs to quit and offer them the break the muscles have been crying sweat for. I have to look behind to make sure Leif is still there-which he is; as silent and lithe as a cat. It will make it more challenging to get by him unnoticed.

My eyes are heavy as I stare out through the trees. It'll be a few hours until dawn, but already the sky is changing from inky black to a royal purple, wiped of any traces of the burning, dying city.

Just like that.

Again, I don't speak to Leif as I close my eyes, hoping he'll follow suit and get the memo to sleep. But I _can't_ sleep. I have to stay awake until he isn't and leave. I decide to head deeper into the forest and cut South which will meet back to the road in less the time. Food would be a harder endeavor, since I lost my bow somewhere between the bombs and searching for Rye, I can't remember where or when. But it's gone and I'll have to figure a way to survive without it.

An hour later, I think Leif is asleep. It's difficult to tell, though, since his breathing is just as light as it's ever been, guarded even now. That's really annoying, I admit, and it forces me to give it another hour. My eyes are tempted to close over and over, but when they do, the scenes of fire and ash that appear before them is enough to keep them open. Finally, with the light of dawn peeking just over the horizon, I rise to my feet, as silently as humanly possible.

I watch for pesky stones, careful not to sift dirt or pine needles, placing the soles of my feet gingerly on the ground. I skirt bushes and trees and keep Leif within my line of vision. Three yards. Six. The casing of a bird scares me and I nearly jump, cursing under my breath.

When I think I'm far enough where the noise won't travel back and see Leif's still-lying figure, I take off. My legs are wobbly and shaking, my stomach a pit of hunger, but I keep going, even as I trip and fall and the world becomes too blurry to distinguish branch from bush.

I don't know how far I go, feeling as if I'm on autopilot, letting instinct take over. Exhaustion weighs me down and has me questioning my route, but when the woods begin to clear, I know I'm nearing the road. Where exactly that is, I have little idea.

Rye and I used to talk about leaving the town; find something beyond this town and explore what the new cities have to offer. We both wanted to discover a life past the potholes of our borders that used to hold an electric fence.

But I never dreamed of this circumstance being the ramrod to fire that shot. I couldn't even leave my home by my own violation, but by necessity and it hurts that I don't even have the option to return to it.

When I see the road, I duck down beneath the brush and finally allow myself to rest. It isn't very fitful, too drenched in blood and bathed in fire to offer much relief from it, but I still wake a few hours later feeling less off balance.

I don't know if Leif is following after or decided to give up and let me walk to whatever fate awaits me but I don't mull it over for long, resume my trek through the woods. I stay by the road, but far enough into the trees for shelter and camouflage, suddenly grateful for the dark colored tar helping me blend into the dark greens of the trees. I take it a step further and rub my blackened arm on my face.

By the time I reach my next resting point, my throat is raw from thirst. Thanks to the recent rainfall, I'm able to scour some few drops bowled in leaves. The meal I find, however, is much less appealing. If it hadn't been for my own hunting and survival ambition, plus the tips dad gave me whenever I mustered up the courage to ask him about his time spent in the arena, I wouldn't know the protein value of a bee's larvae.

It's better than going hungry, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and try to imagine swallowing bread crumbs opposed to baby bees.

When evening comes again, I pick up the pace, my eyes growing accustomed to the dim light as the sun falls away. Tonight, it's clear, with a slight biting wind but at least I can see the moon, making it a little easier to maneuver through the dark.

To keep myself from falling back into the pit of my own thoughts, I start mumbling a song to myself, quiet so as not to give myself away, but loud enough to offer comfort.

_Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow..._

A memory surfaces of a younger version of me, sitting in my mom's lap as she sang that song. There's something haunting about it, something sweet and sour that tells me it's been sung in both happy times and sad ones. It's also the inspiration to my name, and I feel closer to my parents now, whispering the lyrics to myself.

_A bed of grass_

_A soft green pillow..._

Something flickers in my vision suddenly and I duck down, so quickly the moon's light smears across my vision. I narrow my eyes.

I'm standing above a ridge, a small cleft in the hills by the road that allows me to see some distance ahead, and I don't miss the faint glow of firelight there.

My chest contracts and I pick up a decent sized branch before I begin walking.

Each crunch of leaf is amplified in my ears, sending off blaring red lights of warning. But nothing comes for me and I continue on, watching as the firelight grows into a very distinguishable flame.

Then I hear the noises.

It's a low cacophony of whispers carried to me on the light breeze. Words I can't clearly make out and I take steps closer, easing my way through the branches until I can see.

Between the trees, my eyes fall to a small cluster of men sitting around the fire. Bottles are clutched in their hands and the heavy tang of whisky wafts to me. I only have to look at their clothes-browned and torn with poverty-to know they aren't Peacekeepers and the wait is crushing. My brother won't be among the throng of these alcohol guzzlers. Tears spring to my eyes at the disappointment but I'm already turning my attention to skirting around them.

Peacekeepers or not, I need to stay alert and cautious.

I head to the right, gently pulling down the branches in my way, skirting over the logs, flinching at every snapping twig. But they're also drunk, which is beneficial to me. Drunk men are clumsy men, after all.

Something sounds behind me and I turn around, so fast I almost don't see him. But I register a man with scraggly black hair and stained beard, just before pain explodes over my temple and sends me seeing fireworks.

_Lay down your head _

_and close your sleepy eyes..._


End file.
